


Intimacy of the Stream

by MaritimePrince



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirates, Hannibal is a pirate, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-04-27 15:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5053657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaritimePrince/pseuds/MaritimePrince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1724 and Will Graham is tasked with the feat of killing a ghost story too real for the comfort of the Crown and pirates alike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The smell of sea air permeates throughout Will’s room, complete with the acrid stench of rotting fish and harsh alcohols from the docks outside. Warm gusts of air through the open window do nothing but make the sulphuric aromas stronger; however the pungency forces no reaction from Will. He is drowned in his own thoughts, and not even the loud creak of the door nor the purposely heavy footsteps of his uninvited guest are able to hamper his complete divorce with the physical world. 

His eyes remain fixed outside the window. What on, not even Will was aware of. The contents of his mind have bled together, losing form and distinction in favor of a mesh of red that has so paved his life to this point. When had the murders begun? Will could not say. What he does know was that he could attribute that point to when his mind had started its steady decline of contortions and perversions that could be described not as the desires of mankind so surface level that entire professions were developed to satisfy and take advantage of these desires for money. Desires that left the heart a mess by morning and plagued the minds of the pubescent. No, these were the deeper urges, just as primal in their origins, but much less gentle and loving in nature, at least for many. These were the desires that drove the young to the military, that sparked wars and flattened homes. The longing to feel another at one’s mercy, to look another in the eye and know their life lies in one’s hands prior to it being truncated promptly and swiftly with the single shot of a bullet or cut of a sword. 

Such things shook Will to the core in part due to the complete horror of such situations and in part due to the fact that somewhere, in the deep recesses of his mind, he found a sick enjoyment in the theory of such a situation. Whether it was due to his adoption of the mindset of the killers and thieves known as pirates he had collected pieces of that shaped and reshaped his very being so wholly to a point of almost complete metamorphosis from whatever life and self he has previously held dear to this one or not, was of no importance. He knew that at some point they had become his own enjoyments and thoughts regardless of the influence behind them. 

Neither though did it matter that such thoughts existed. He had learned to expel them in his conscious state. Although, the same could not be said of his sleeping state, as evidenced by his glossy stare and the dark rings underlining his eyes, which squint against the penetrating brightness of the tropical sun, that only prove too well the number of sleepless nights he had forced himself to endure. 

The loud, grating crackle of a throat clearing startles Will into finally pulling away from the window and his own self-reflections to address the second figure in the room, a tall, well-dressed man who seems to take up half the room through his demeanor alone. And his serious, almost grim expression alone speaks words for his status, encouraged by the blue frock coat he wears proudly as a symbol for his connections. A commodore for the Royal Navy, and a powerful one at that. 

Will’s expression settles slightly but the tension does not fully quit his stance. A slight, bitter grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, baring just a hint of teeth, and while his eyes never match the other man’s gaze, recognition smooths his features without the bias of one particular emotion. 

“Jack,” Will greets, his tone laced with both compassionate familiarity and the slightest undertones of frustration. 

The man, Jack Crawford his name, does not change his expression, which appears to be cut in stone, in response to the informality with which Will addressed him, revealing none of his well-calculated thoughts. He stalks forward until face to face with Will, the previous heaviness to the gait meant to announce his presence replaced with complete, silent fluidity and forming an air of grave importance underlined by the intimidating nature that marked his very being. His gaze settles unwelcomely on Will’s for a split second before allowing the other man the comfort of breaking contact to stare at the bare surface of the desk to Jack’s right without question nor offense. 

“There is a new one in custody.” 

Jack speaks nonchalantly as if there is nothing behind his words, as if it was only a statement and not the lead in to a request Will knows at this point to expect. 

“And you want me to what? Listen to his troubles and fears in his last moments?” Will sasses without pause. 

“He speaks of another.” Jack frowns slightly, the only tell of the gravity behind his words. 

Will’s previously lopsided grin grows in response to Jack’s words and he gives a slightly bitter chuckle that is lacking humor entirely whilst shaking his head. 

“Jack, you know better than anyone not to trust a pirate. He is lying to save his own skin and you know it. You don’t need me just to confirm that. And you sure as hell can’t be here to have me chase down this pirate’s tale. I failed my testing Jack. I am not permitted to sail.” 

“And I am overturning that ruling,” Jack replies without inflection in his tone, but with an intensity behind his stare that measured the pure weight of his words. 

Will freezes in place as Jack’s words wash over him, leaving him disoriented. His grin quickly transitions to a frown in a series of steps accompanying his brows knitting together in confusion. 

“You will be accompanied by a team of my choosing if you so choose to accept this job,” Jack continues. 

“Would that be for my benefit or for your own piece of mind?” 

“Speak to the prisoner if you must before you depart, but make it fast. He leaves for the gallows at sunrise tomorrow,” Jack concludes without acknowledging Will’s question. 

“No! No,” Will responds harshly, moving away from Jack to begin pacing on the opposite side of the room. 

Crawford remains stationary, carefully watching Will Graham from where he has decided to stand stiffly, professionally. “You’re the best sailor we have.” 

“Had,” Will corrects with anger creeping into his tone. 

“And I would like to borrow your skills again to catch a pirate we both know the world would be safer without.” 

Will’s steps slow slightly as he releases a heavy sigh of resignation, recognizing this denial to be a losing battle. “And who does this pirate claim to know the whereabouts of?” 

“The Ripper.”


	2. Chapter 2

The dismal cinder prison seems to blot out all light but that from the few candles and oil lamps stationed sporadically without notable pattern as Will and Jack walk carefully down the steps, the door closing behind them as if sealing them off from the outside world entirely. Immediately, putrid air begins to hang thick in Will’s lungs with the stench of desecration and the heaviness of the congested atmosphere itself.

He takes note of the few cells. Lack of necessity due to the near immediate execution of any criminal unlucky enough to be sent here has kept the quarters cramped. Although, it is unlikely that any form of expansion would take place in the event of a larger prison count.

A man in the corner closest to the entrance, the only of two prisoners, appears to be relieving himself in the wrong direction, contributing the sounds of retching and the smell of bad alcohol and stomach acid to the sickening ambiance. It burns slightly at the corners of Will’s eyes and the back of his throat, and while he stares in the captured pirate’s direction, Jack remains focused ahead, moving past Will to stop two empty cells down and face the person of interest.

“Any word on a profile?” Jack asks the single guard, sitting at a small wooden table behind him.

“Nothing yet, Sir,” responds the scruffy looking guard, coming to his feet at the realization of who was addressing him, attentive but clearly peeved.

“Take leave, Zeller,” Jack commands harshly in a tone that revealed he was not permitting the subject to be negotiated.

“Right away, Sir.”

The man leaves without another word or even addressing Will’s existence, brushing past him on his way out, and Will follows his path with his eyes out of curiosity more than any form of interest. He comes to stand behind Jack to address the prisoner, who has since turned to watch them with a crooked smile.

A layer of grime covers the man’s face, nearly hiding the stubble about his jaw and receding hairline. There is a smug sense of superiority that could come from nothing other than pure understanding as he stares directly into Will’s eyes. Will quickly looks away, frightened by the kinship the man seems to radiate in his direction, and the man’s grin only grows larger in response.

“You’re new.”

It is a statement, not a question, thrown in Will’s direction as if to see what reaction it would invoke, but his minor experiment is cut short by Jack.

“Tell us what you know about the Ripper.”

“What is it you want to know?” His eyes never leave Will’s, focused intently, “That he is a ghost story,” he pauses for a moment, “or that he dropped me here himself on your doorstep? Thought it would be some form of punishment for my actions.”

Jack’s brows pull together and he straightens his spine. His eyes burn holes in the side of the prisoner’s head. He approaches the bars stiffly, pointing an accusatory finger in the pirate’s direction.

“You said yourself he is a ghost story. The Ripper is a children’s tale. And now you tell me he is responsible for your capture!” Jack’s voice booms, echoing off the stone walls, and the eccentric man in the cell visibly jumps in response.

“That doesn’t stop him from being real.”

The prisoner gets to his feet and approaches the cell bars. His eyes continue to be locked on Will despite addressing Jack.

Will hears the rustle of fabric. His eyes quickly flash to the pirate’s torso before taking in the gruesome sight of a large gash from just to the left to his navel down two or three inches. It had been sewn back together with near surgical precision where the man had lifted his shirt.

“It was a trophy,” Will finally speaks up almost too softly to be heard.

Jack turns his head to face Will.

“His kidney,” Will states much louder this time, “it was a trophy. But why?”

He shakes slightly as he says this, but it is clear that it is more in frustration that he did not understand the motive than any form of fear or discomfort. His expression remain collected, curious even as his head tilted to one side and his eyes squinted as if in an attempt to get a better look at the injury up the man’s side. With a mind of their own, Will’s feet drag him toward the cell until his face is nearly touching the bars without having realized he had moved at all.

“Will,” Jack warns in response to Will’s proximity to the prisoner.

“What makes you so special?” Will continues to question as if Jack’s voice did not register. “Or rather, what makes you different, not special.” A humorless smile pulls at his lips and he lets out a quick exhale that could be considered something similar in manner to a breathy chuckle. “That would imply you had some form of value to him, when he saw you as no better than the dirt that covers your face.”

“Will!” Jack repeats, louder this time.

Will is startled by this and shakes his head as if to clear it. “Sorry,” he finally mumbles quietly.

He watches quietly as Jack turns to leave and trails him obediently. Leaving the prison lets Will finally take a deep breath and clear his lungs, but his blue eyes squint under the sunlight that overpowers his senses, leaving him slightly disoriented. It is

Jack’s voice that once again brings him to the present, clearing his head and giving him focus.

“What happened in there?” The slightest hint of concern crept into Jack’s voice, but his expression remained neutral.

“He’s real, Jack.”

“I know. That is why we need you.”

 

 

 

As Jack had promised, the next day starts with a funeral. A public hanging was called for the man convicted of piracy. Families came together. Children no older than six accompanied parents. Teens in the midst of what they thought to be love gathered in the streets with their guests to witness the event.

Will stands beside Jack. His days on Earth have been beginning to blur together due to lack of sleep, and he found it difficult to focus on any one thing for too long a time. Unlike most of the crowd, his face betrays no amusement nor excitement over the upcoming spectacle. Nor is there dread. No, he is a blank slate in its entirety, at least in this moment.

The rattle of chains draw his attention as the only two prisoners who previously occupied the cells were dragged into the open, followed soon by the roar of the crowd, yelling, cursing and throwing whatever could be found at the men. It seems to happen so quickly. A makeshift knife of sorts is expertly thrust into the neck of one of the guards as the prisoner with which Will and Jack had previously spoken. Nearby guards immediately swarm the man, leaving the guard on the concrete to bleed out in her inevitable death. The crowd seemed to grow louder in response to the uproar, drowning out the commands of officers and the woman’s dying gasps. For a man missing a kidney, he puts up a bit of a fight before being quickly subdued.

A guard on each side grabs harshly at his armpits, dragging him faster than his feet could keep up to the site that would soon be his grave. Will catalogs the fresh lacerations, freckled with dirt and small rocks, along the tops of the man’s feet from where they scraped the pavement. He is trembling with fear as the rope is placed around his neck, and Will can’t find himself able to look away.

“Garret Jacob Hobbs, you have been found guilty of piracy. The punishment for this is death,” proclaims the executioner, finally revealing the convict’s name to the public.

Suddenly time comes to slow to almost a standstill for Will as the executioner continues to read Hobbs’s crimes of thievery, murder, treason and many others. The punishment for them all, death. It isn’t until the door beneath his feet give way that time catches up with him, and the slowly dying eyes of Garret Jacob Hobbs lock on his, unrelenting in their command for his reciprocation, leads him to imagine himself hanging from that rope, struggling for breath in a mindless panic and on display for the world in his last moments.

That is the line for Will, the line at which he must look away in a slight panic. His breath comes in quick, uncontrollable gasps, and he scrubs his face with his hands in an attempt to regain control.

When he looks back up and into a crowd, there is a new, different figure among the screaming and cheering folks. He is silent, reserved even, though satisfaction still toys at his features as his deep brown eyes pull slowly, gracefully from the dying man to meet Will’s gaze. There is a hidden wit and even wildness that betrayed his immaculate appearance among the dishevel of the common folk or even in comparison to the mess of dark curls framing Will’s face and two days worth of unkempt facial hair about his jaw. The plain, colorless rags that mark him as a member of the commons seem to not fit him both in demeanor and size, this being accented by pieces of his hair having been braided with more care than a majority of the public put into their whole wardrobe ensemble. Matched gazes are hastily broken by Will, but he doesn’t miss how the corner of the stranger’s mouth twitches just slightly as he turns to push himself back through the crowd in a calm and controlled retreat, Will’s eyes following him the entire way.


	3. Chapter 3

The darkness is suffocating, intimate in a way that only hands bruisingly placed around the neck, eyes locked in a silent conversation of pleading and denying can contest. It is all encompassing as if it fills Will’s lungs with tar, and he opens his mouth to gasp for breath but nothing enters nor leaves the prison of his lungs.

He is dying, or feels like dying. Which it is, he cannot be certain.

“See,” a voice whispers, the warmth of breath casting over his ear and the feeling of lips brushing his skin in a feather light touch makes him shiver, but as Will turns his head to face the source, there is nothing but the shadows to greet him.

Will doesn’t respond. He does not call out for help. He knows it is helpless to respond.

The feeling of being submerged starts at his ankles, lapping teasingly at his bare feet and testing the waters slowly upwards, but Will’s eyes are useless to see anything but the black and red atmosphere surrounding him from all directions. Closing his eyes provides no escape, the view unchanging and accentuating the burning sensation that crawls under the scratchy linen of clothes he has no memory of owning, soggy from the invisible liquid now ghosting his lips.

He hurriedly sheds the long coat from his shoulders and struggles to unclasp buckles and belts, allowing them to be swallowed by the sea of darkness to which they belong, to that Will is certain. However, the lesser weight does nothing to keep him from being slowly, painfully dragged into the abyss of nothingness as his head sinks beneath the surface.

Where he could not breathe before, Will now rasps, his lungs on fire but able to adapt to the sea where they could not the air.

“See,” repeats the voice, “It is said the true nature of man is often found in his dreams.”

“As is the devil,” Will responds, not missing a beat.

Will does not turn toward the voice this time, instead subjecting himself to the pull of the sea and allowing his body to be melded and guided by the fires of the invisible sea. Blue eyes remain closed in a state of false serenity despite the panic sitting knotted in his gut like an anchor, ensuring his descent.

“Then are sins the measure of man’s true nature?” The voice pauses as if contemplating the thought. “The greatest desires of man can be summed up by a small series of decisions and expressions. Tell me. What does drowning say of your desires?”

A humorless chuckle escapes Will’s throat.

“Does a duck desire to be slaughtered and used for its meat?”

“Everything desires to have a purpose, Will. Although, I feel a shark is much more fitting than a duck.”

Will’s brows come together, and he finally opens his eyes, twisting his body to face the source of the voice despite the fear ringing in his mind and previous experience telling him nothing will be present but the void through which he sinks.

What he does find is the brown eyes and long, silvering hair of the figure from the hanging. Small scars are scattered across his features, and lips are sealed tightly with the hint of a smile contorting the corners. The neat braids decorating his hair frame his face are still present, but his clothing has been switched so that atop his head is a captain’s hat adorned by the feathers of birds of the tropics. Many guns and swords are holstered along his hips, and Will is certain he is carrying more that he cannot see. A long coat hangs loosely on his shoulders over a ruffled shirt remarkably clean for someone so clearly a pirate, and he appears untouched by the water surrounding them.

“Who are you?” Will whispers, not entirely aware of the question leaving his own lips and his heart rate racing in his own ears.

“Do you wish to change the topic, Will?” Amusement is clear on the pirate’s face despite his expression having changed very little. “Does the truth of your own nature frighten you? Are you afraid that if you stop swimming you will drown?”

 

 

With a start, Will wakes in his own bed. Sweat makes his clothes cling to him uncomfortably, but he does not take notice beyond that. Using the heels of his hands, he scrubs viciously at his eyes in an attempt to calm down. His entire body is cold despite the sunlight pouring down on him through the window.

Wordlessly, he shrugs on the uniform Jack had presented him the following day, uncaring that the clothes were immediately dampened by his sweat, and plods to the docks.

If these are to be his last moments here, they have not started well, and Will dreads to think of what that says about the mission as a whole.

As he turns the corner, he takes in the sight of what is meant to be his ship for the expedition. The broadside is proud, magnificent even among the other ships on dock. Crew members work quickly, lifting supplies over shoulders and rolling barrels up large ramps to move as much as possible in a short amount of time. The sails smother the sun, beautiful and white against the cloudless sky. Guns line the hull on both sides, reminding the passerby that despite her elegance, the ship was powerful and built to withstand battle.

Four members of the crew stand beside Jack, lined up along the dock, but the only one to respond to his approach is Jack himself. The others remain silent, professional as if carved in marble and expertly placed. There is a fine, threatening line that they would sink backwards into the wooden hull of the ship and become one with the wooden panels and expertly painted accents they seem to match perfectly. They are a part of the ship at their core, destined to remain so until the demise of one or the other, until death do them part.

“The Mirriam Bell,” Jack says to Will, whistling fondly. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

Will doesn’t respond, too captivated by the sight of the ship. Ever since he was young, he had a fascination with the fleets, likely in part due to his family history. Will’s father had been an able seaman for the Royal Navy, capable and loyal but never promoted beyond his unlicensed status. It wasn’t something he spoke of often, but Will distinctly remembered his father returning from an expedition, smelling of the sea air with skin red and raw from labor under the unforgiving sun.

“As Acting Lieutenant, I expect you to be well acquainted with your fellow officers.”

A young woman turns her head in Will’s direction. Despite her serious expression, there is an air of compassion and understanding about her that many people lack. She is confident in herself and her abilities and is clearly dedicated to her position. And Will notes the obvious strength hidden behind her soft gaze.

“Alana Bloom, Chaplain,” she says warmly, “I have been assigned to the Mirriam Bell by the Church of England for the spiritual and pastoral support of the crew.”

She returns to her previous, stiff stance in exchange for the attention of another, a middle-aged man with a charm and humor to him that is just hinted in his expression, unexpected from a warrant officer. The levity with which he regards Jack is not reprimanded, nor encouraged as if Jack has simply grown accustomed to the treatment as he has for Will.

“Jimmy Price, Surgeon” he greets with a nod of his head, his tone loose and informal despite lack of previous interaction, offering Will a much appreciated break from the formality entirely new to him whilst simultaneously adding to his discomfort regarding the social interactivity of this meet and greet.

“Well look what the cat dragged in,” spoke the third, a man with which Will had already been acquainted. “Brian Zeller, sailing master and professional seaman responsible for the-”

“Navigation specialist,” cuts off Price to which Zeller simply shrugs, nods.

With a slight nudge to Price’s side, the remaining illusion of formality is broken by Zeller, and the officers break rank to stand more comfortably with a familiar smile to each other--Zeller’s being slightly more irked however.

“What?” Price responds lightly to his crew-mate, who exasperatedly cocks his head to the side.

“I can introduce myself,” Zeller mumbles.

“I was just giving the condensed version.”

“Okay! Okay,” cuts in Jack just as Zeller opens his mouth to respond. His tone has a calm but firm nature to it that leaves Will certain he is well acquainted with their bickering.

The final officer, a woman with the understanding of Bloom and charm of Price and Zeller, clears her throat with a smile to draw Will’s attention from where he carefully observes the exchange between the others so as to finish the introductions. She extends a hand to shake that Will stares at blankly before grudgingly returning the greeting.

“Beverly Katz, Purser,” she greet warmly with a spark of curiosity in her expression.

Will nods in recognition before turning back toward Jack for instruction.

“Where do we go from here?” Jack asks, expecting his appointed warrant officer to make a call.

“Nassau,” responds Will.

“You want me to take a royal navy ship into one of the most pirate infested ports in the Caribbean?”

“He has a point,” interjects Beverly, “It would be a good place to check for leads.”

“But we don’t even know if the Ripper is there,” Zeller points out.

“He is,” Will responds, turning to walk toward the ship.

“That is a big risk you are asking me to take,” Jack calls to him.

Will hears the rest of the conversation in pieces, slowly retreating into the background. Arguments are made for and against his decision to which he pays no heed. He is more concerned with getting to sea as soon as possible to clear his head, still swimming from the newest installment in Will’s long list of nightmares. He can just make out the distinct sigh of Jack before he asks Zeller for the navigation details, informing Will that they were to set sail soon.


	4. Chapter 4

“Will! Wake up!” Alana’s voice rings through the night, cutting through Will’s fitful slumber.

His eyes immediately open, lacking clarity not due to grogginess but panic as he springs into a sitting position to regard the other figure. Recognition slowly seeps into his gaze and his breathing slows to the point where, were it not for his sweat stained hair and clothes, he would have appeared to be calm.

The room is still dark, not even the light of the moon gracing Will with the comfort of clear sight. However, the slow, methodical sway of the boat beneath him is a wordless lullaby capable of entrancing Will with its sweet melodic rhythm.

“It’s time to go. Jack has a plan,” she states calmly, sympathy in her voice.

 

 

 

“Do not accept anything from her. Do not talk to her for any reason beyond what is necessary. She is dangerous, Will. I hope you know what you got yourself into by agreeing to help Jack. You weren’t supposed to get close. Who knows what else you will have to do?” Alana warns.

Her features are pulled in such a way that worry shows clearly and her pace brisk, revealing her desire to complete the required task as quickly as possible. While Will is able to match her step, the speed and weariness returning to his bones make his strides more like stumbles, but she makes no effort to slow down. Instead he receives an apologetic smile before she continues,

“She does nothing for free. Do not confuse this with kindness.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t,” Will finally speaks up, but she doesn’t respond.

“We cannot have her knowing the nature of anything beyond what she already knows. You are going to Nassau to obtain information about a pirate. There is no reason to tell her who. She already knows we cannot dock with the Miriam Bell in one of the most pirate infested ports in the Caribbean, and she is smart enough to figure out for herself how desperate we are. There is no reason to confirm or deny anything further.”

Will nods, observing the rats and sewage that have found a home along the sides of the streets as he listens. Jack had given him a similar briefing the night before. He had a favor to call from a member of the underground, who was to smuggle Will into the city. The contact refused to take the whole team--too risky for this kind of job--and Will’s talents would help him assume the guise of a pirate more effectively than the others. However, he appreciated Alana’s attempts to protect him with her directions.

The sounds of her footsteps halt, and Will looks up, having not realized how quickly they had reached Jack’s quarters. He turns to her as she releases a long sigh and looks up at him without forcing his gaze.

“Will, just know that we wouldn’t subject you to this if we knew there was another way.”

He smiles in a way he hopes is comforting and yet knows, far back in his mind, that there is no comfort to be had.

“Thank you, Alana.”

Will enters the office to observe the woman with which he would be working for the next few weeks, and then, in Zeller’s words, hopefully never see again.

Immediately after stepping in, his crewmates’’ warnings are justified in his mind. The woman who turns to address him has the face of a fox--sly, cunning, opportunistic, venal, and a willingness to step on as many people as it takes to achieve what it is she wants. And her current desire is clearly to satiate the curiosity to her that starves for information.

“Will Graham, I presume,” she greets with false politeness, “You are looking for someone to smuggle you into Nassau?”

“This is Freddie Lounds, Will,” Jack explains before Will has the opportunity to respond, “She has no claims to information and don’t let her make you think she does. This is her repaying her debt for having been caught five-”

“Six,” she corrects, cutting Jack off.

He looks to her in annoyance, but otherwise does not address her presence in the room.

“Six times smuggling firearms into the city.”

“What is the use of a smuggler who has been caught six times?” Will asks without inflection in his tone.

“Who is important enough that the Royal Navy itself is resorting to smuggling to catch them?” She bites back, offended but also unwilling to justify herself to someone, especially someone whose opinion meant nothing to her.

“Don’t answer that!” commands Jack sternly, “Freddie is an option we have available. And we don’t have many of those right now to carry out your plan.”

Freddie grins. And Will observes her amusement with even the scraps of details she can feed her curiosity. Alana was right, she is dangerous. Placing his life in her hands is to make a deal with the devil. Whether this is the repayment of her debt or not, he feels as though she is laying claim to a piece of his own soul in the process. Although, it is not his soul she desires, such things have no applicable value to them. She wants to back him in a corner and hold him there until he speaks or proves no longer useful, at which point she will toss him aside as if he had no value to begin with.

Will is aware of this. It radiates from her as she looks him over as if he were cattle and she a wolf. He just hopes his usefulness does not expire before he is set to return to Jack’s crew.

As Freddie leaves, he follows cautiously. She is talking, but he is not paying attention to her words. Social graces are already difficult for him. To watch his words would require more conscious thought and effort than to avoid speaking entirely, so he elects to watch his feet instead, regarding the constant fluidity of motion seemingly transferred from one foot to the next in passing.

The makeshift wooden bridge between the ships is removed seemingly as soon as Will sets foot on the deck of Freddie’s ship and within minutes they have set sail, the Mirriam Bell disappearing into the night with its crew so soon after Will had been granted the opportunity to be counted amongst the members it protects like a strong, wooden cocoon.

“You are on my ship now, Will Graham, and I expect you to follow my rules. For now you are free to wander the crew barracks and deck, but when I give an order, you are to respond immediately and without question.”

Will nods halfheartedly, his attention still only half present in the conversation.

“Good. Put these on.”

Freddie hands him a bundle of clothes.

“If you are going to act as a pirate, you need to dress the part.”


	5. Chapter 5

Water drips steadily on his face, and he can see the slide of a mop along the floorboards above the crevice in which he lies in wait. His knees are locked tightly against his chest, but any attempt to move just strains his joints. There are thick, wooden planks on all sides of him, sturdy and constricting yet not routinely attended to, unlike the rest of the ship. 

The sounds of the crew scurrying to prepare to dock echo in the cavity, but Will does not dare move to join them nor does he dare to make a sound even as the ship comes to a stop. Freddie had been clear in her instructions to be silent as if he wasn’t even present. If something were to go wrong in the town itself, she wanted no connection to Will and for that he could not blame her. 

“Freddie,” calls a voice Will does not recognize. 

There are heavy footsteps above, but it is hard to see anything clearly through the cracks in the flooring aside from light and shadow. He turns his head to the greatest degree he can manage and uses his elbows to prop himself up in an attempt to see something, but there remains to be nothing but a small strip of sky. 

Fear rings out in Will, and he cannot hear their conversation over the beating of his own heart, deafening to his ears. And while his head reminds him of his disguise and the precautions taken on such a mission, his chest will not still. There is too much room for error, for failure that will undoubtedly end in his death if he cannot fall into character fast enough to avoid suspicion. 

Darkness covers his vision as a boot lands heavily over the crack between the floorboards Will has taken to as his portal to the outside world. Loose dirt and small rocks become dislodged from the shoe’s sole and drop into the crevice Will occupies like hellfire, burning Will’s eyes and filling his lungs. However, he does not dare to move. 

Seconds, minutes, hours. Will is not sure how long he waits, patiently, silently, for any movement from the figure above him. He no longer tries to listen in favor of focusing on the rise and fall of his own chest. 

The sun and squeak of hinges comes as a surprise, unwelcome to sensitive eyes. An arm raises instinctively to shield his eyes from the light and he squints, just able to make out the curls of Freddie. 

“Time to go,” She says before walking off without another word. 

The pop and crack of stiff joints cuts through the air as Will moves to stand. His hands run along his sides, smoothing out the vest and loose red shirt Freddie had handed him on his first night to a state of pretentious dishevelment. There was a line, Freddie had warned him, between the typical standards of pirate dress and mess that rested mainly on an individual ship’s dress code. A line, Will is grateful to have pointed out to him as he takes in the atmosphere of Nassau. 

There are bodies in the street, no dead, or at least Will doesn’t think they are, but they are unresponsive, likely drunk and useless. No one seems to mind them, even the ones beginning to stir and as people step on outstretched limbs, they do not mutter an apology nor recognition. Even in pirate society there appears to be an inescapable measure of social and economic standing reflected in dress and manners beyond the standard difference between Captain and crew; however, there is also a measure of comradery and sameness amongst them. Even the lowest ranking crewman holds their heads high with a confidence unseen back in Port Royal as if they have power despite their ranks. It is a mark of fluidity among their classes and an equality Will is not accustomed to, but he quickly adopts their stance. 

“Can I help you, my boy?” Asks a low voice next to him, dangerously close. 

A hand strokes lazily over his upper arm, feeling his muscles beneath his loose shirt, and Will pulls away violently in shock. His form is tense, painfully so. The quick movement of his neck to address the figure gives him slight whiplash, and he blinks rapidly to return to his senses. 

A young woman of the night dressed scantily in a low cut dress to mask the sadness behind her eyes stands before him, or rather against him, her form practically resting on his own. She wears a smile, fake but charming, that he is certain others do not read into, but there is an independence to her that combats her weariness. 

“No,” he responds, “no, thank you.” 

He mentally kicks himself for the response, momentarily certain she figured him to be out of place, but she does not bat a lash. 

“Perhaps a different companion? We have those too,” she suggests, nodding her head at a thin male inside who converses openly with a man Will assumes to be his client. 

His eyes widen slightly in shock, and he doesn’t offer a response. Such things were not accepted under British rule. To have such a situation open and performed in the street is a culture shock that rattles his mind to a degree that leaves him nauseous with confusion. 

Limbs acting on their own, he finds himself backed into the bar across the street, and he releases a breath he was unaware he was holding. He is unable to dwell on culture’s influence on a society’s views on homosexuality, however, as a heavy body collides with his own, leaving him stumbling and almost sending him back out the door he just recently came through. 

Almost as soon as the intrusive weight falls upon him, it is lifted from his shoulders harshly, and he turns to view his attacker with a false bravado in imitation of the pirates he had seen earlier. His lips curl in something similar to a snarl, and he lifts his arm to punch the man with minimal hesitation. However, the man is no longer directly behind him. He is held fast by the arms of another pirate, and a loud crash sounds through the bar as his face is suddenly slammed into the wooden bar. 

“Fuck!” 

Will’s fist slowly uncurls and drops back to his side, but his expression refuses to settle as he regards the men in the fight. The one is an oaf of a man Will can attribute his previous stumbling to but does not recognize. The other is the same pirate that seems to be haunting Will in his nightmares since the hanging. He notes that the pirate appears to be carrying far fewer weapons than his dream version and his wild mess of hair is far different than how Will had seen him before. Despite his serious expression, there is pure enjoyment radiating from his form that Will catches onto instantly. 

The man with his face against the wood scrambles quickly for a bottle he quickly breaks and slashes at the older pirate’s face with, barely scraping his skin but still managing to draw blood. He draws back quickly to avoid further harm, twisting for a bar rag with his eyes still focused on the man before him like a predator and his prey. There is a hunger present in those eyes that Will feels settle in his gut alongside an eroticism that makes him bristle. 

Cloth wraps around the stranger’s arm as the more familiar one disarms the man and pulls. The larger man stumbles forward and the older restrains his arm against his chest, working the rag around his neck. Sputtering is all that can leave the younger’s mouth, and his free arm claws uselessly at the makeshift garrote cutting of his air as the other steadily applies more and more pressure. 

It isn’t until the man sinks slowly to the ground that Will realizes he has been frozen, mesmerized by the brutality on display before him without criticism. He forces himself to move if only to appear less out of place, and takes a seat at the bar alongside the two pirates. However, he fails to pull his eyes from the sight of sharp teeth exposed just slightly in a cruel smile and silvering hair, lank with sweat, falling in front of eyes, focused calmly on the task at hand. 

“I don’t consider it polite to stare,” the man speaks up, without looking away from the body, running two fingers along his neck. 

He must be content with the state of the man’s pulse because he releases his grip to sit back on the nearby bar stools. 

Will sits in silence, uncertain of how to respond to such a statement, letting his eyes fall away to the man on the floor instead. 

“He had the most appalling manner of speaking. The wasted air is better served elsewhere.” He runs his fingers through his hair, letting braids fall back where they are meant to regain a semi-neat appearance. “Hannibal Lector. Pleasure.” 

“Will Graham.” 

“I know. Not hard to find one of her Majesty’s dogs. Could have fooled me though were it not for your doe eyed expression,” he responds quietly, leaning in to whisper in Will’s ear as if it were a secret. 

He reaches across the bar for a bottle. The bartender opens her mouth as if to protest but the words are trapped in her throat when Hannibal arches one brow in question. She stands as far from them as possible. Then again, everyone seems to. Something about Hannibal seems to make his fellow pirates draw away in fear, and it isn’t the body resting against his bar-stool if the loud fight breaking out behind them was a measure of normalcy in Nassau. 

Will’s brows draw together in both consideration and slight anger. 

“You were there, at the hanging of Garret Jacob Hobbs. Why?” 

“What is it you accuse me of, Will?” Hannibal asks, but there is no hurt, just amusement in his tone. 

Will gives a humorless chuckle. “I am just asking your connection to the pirate. Do I have something to accuse you of? Criminals do return to the scene of the crime and someone carved out Garret Jacob Hobbs’s kidney.” 

Will grits his teeth, biting back a hiss of pain and anger as Hannibal grabs his arm roughly. Fingers burrow deep in the flesh there, bruising, marking. He is jostled harshly until his face is inches from Hannibal’s and he glares angrily in his direction. 

“You’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing, Will. It is in your best interest to keep your voice down and not make accusations for fear of alerting the shepherd.” 

“Or else the predator becomes the prey,” Will interrupts, earning him another harsh shake from Hannibal and he lowers his voice in response. “Which are you?” 

“The neverending struggle for existence of both leaves the line between the two subjective,” Hannibal responds with a shrug. 

Will stares in confusion, rubbing the underside of his jaw with the back of his hand. The stubble there scratches against his skin uncomfortably, and he forces himself to stop when his hand begins to feel raw. 

“Why are you protecting me?” He asks after a long pause, unsure why the pirate does not take advantage of his knowledge. 

“Things are more interesting the thinner the line between predator and prey. You and I are both to one another.” 

The relationship between pirate and Navy may be a competition for existence on both ends, but Will figures there is more to his words than the surface level meaning of their relationship. Hannibal should have the upper hand. He should be the shepherd and he is armed for a fight with the wolf amongst his lambs, so why does he stay his hand? 

Will can deduce his curiosity and the thirst for blood behind his eyes, but not a further explanation behind his restraint. Will’s predatory role to him must extend to him beyond his title. 

“Orcas are natural enemies to the shark, but unlike cats and mice, there is no obvious winner,” Hannibal mentions after a long period of silence. 

Will watches from the corner of his eye as Hannibal brings the bottle in his hands directly to his lips and throws his head back confidently. His title. His given title. He officially does not even have the power over this man that a true Warrant Officer does. The only jurisdiction in Will’s possession is as a consultant to catch the Ripper. Will’s eyes widen slightly in realization of who the man before him truly is. This Hannibal Lector, a specter haunting Will in his very bed of nightmares, is the ghost story of a pirate. He is the monster that lives in children’s closets, the menace to both pirates and Navy alike. 

The terror gripping the bartender, the cryptic explanations, the intelligence he wields confidently over both Will and his fellow pirates. It all makes sense then. 

Opening his mouth to speak, Will is once again violently shaken by the pirate, but this time he allows himself to respond in his anger by jolting backwards to counter Hannibal’s own pull. However, he does not audibly protest. He still does not understand how curiosity is able to so fully motivate the man, and to speak wrongly is to risk his cover at the hands of a pirate. 

“If you are to attack me, Will, might I recommend doing so in a haven of your own?” His grip slides along Will’s arm to pry his hand free from a dagger Will did not realize he was gripping and lingering briefly on Will’s fingers. 

Will shivers at the contact, but he pushes aside any wrongful intrigue he has for the older man. He knows the Ripper’s face, his name, the faces of fellow pirates that have witnessed the Ripper kill in cold blood. Any response beyond pure horror and fear is inappropriate for such a situation. And Will himself is unable to distinguish whether his interest is his own or a reflection of Hannibal’s so clearly displayed in his eyes, nor the nature of Hannibal’s intrigue in him. 

“And you have some place in mind?” 

“Perhaps.” 

Suddenly the heat of the pirate’s form beside him disappears, accompanied by the screech of a barstool across the floor and metal coins against wood. With the bottle still in his hand, Hannibal exits the building with a mock salute to the entire room, but Will knows it is aimed toward him. 

“What you are looking for will turn up, William, but how can you expect to find anything when you haven’t found yourself? The human experience is fluid. To survive, one must accept that where they begin is not where they will end but must find themselves at some point along that path of change.”


End file.
